Page 9 of The Author

She sniffled and tried to pick up the phone.

“For fuck’s sake.”

I grabbed my phone from her and ensured it was still open at notes before holding it up for her. I watched as she keyed in her password.

M@r1@nn@

“Who’s Marianna?”

She glanced at me before looking down again and began typing again.

Mother.

“Wow. How very fucking original with your password. How did you become an author?” I said snidely before taking my phone off her.

I didn’t want her to answer rhetorical questions. It was just as well her mouth was sewn shut.

Once I had pocketed my phone, I picked up the duct tape and approached the doorway.

“Good luck getting to the bathroom now. This is only a taste of what will happen if you don’t obey my instructions,” I told her without looking back.

???

After spending hours scouring her laptop, I couldn’t find anything on it resembling my book. I ran a hand through my hair in frustration.

Such fucking trite romance novels.

How did women read this shit?

Only one book was a little dark, but nothing on it resembled my work.

She must have hidden it somewhere else.

I wanted to go back upstairs and smack her about until she confessed to being a thief. I didn’t think it through when I sewed her lips up.

Everything about her smacked timid and weak. She was as anti-social as I was. She didn’t do many book signings and kept out of the public eye. Her book profile was impressive, showing sixty-three books. I had tried to read one of her books, but it was so boring and full of feelings with little action.

Why a sudden change of genre?

I slammed the lid of the laptop down.

Tomorrow.

She would feel more of my wrath. I have never felt so humiliated in all my fucking life. I am being accused of stealing another author’s works. When I know she stole from me.

No one fucking steals from Kyle Mathers.

Chapter 7

Faye

When he came in the following morning, he was holding a long sports bottle with a straw sticking out of it. I barely slept from fear and pain. My feet felt swollen, and I had bitten the insides of my mouth so I didn’t scream and rip the stitches.

“Breakfast,” he said with a sly smile.

I looked at the bottle apprehensively. He could have put anything inside it.

“Don’t worry, it's not poisoned or drugged,” he said, smirking.

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